If I Were Jesus' Grandpa

If I were Jesus’ grandpa, I’d make funny faces to light up his smile. I’d tickle him under the chin and laugh with him. I’d rock and soothe him to sleep and when colic struck, I’d pat his back and rub his tummy until the gas bubble completed its journey. Sometimes, I would hold him on my chest, making a bed for him. I’d lay on the hard-packed clay floor until he fell asleep. I’d feel his gentle breathing and hear the flutter of his heartbeat. His body heat would blend with mine-a transcendent joy. I’d wrap him into my cloak and we would sleep until he stirred for food. Finding I wasn’t the source, he’d fuss until I turned him over to Mary, then I’d burp him and put him back on my chest to finish our shared sleep. If I were Jesus’ grandpa, I’d roll a wooden ball across the hard dirt floor to him and laugh with him when it went out the open doorway. I’d let him chase me till he caught me and play peek-a-boo for ten minutes straight. I’d make a humming noise and run a finger over my lips to make funny noises just to hear his laugh. If I were jesus’ grandpa, I’d take him by the hand and turn rocks over at stream’s edge to find what lives underneath. I’d put him on my shoulders and we’d walk for miles watching hawks and eagles, snakes and lizards and counting how many red flowers we could find along the way. If I were Jesus’ grandpa, we’d sit by the fire at night and talk of old things and new; things from my childhood and from his future. We’d lay plans for a box planter for Mary’s garden and a wheelbarrow for the neighbor down the road. We’d count and sing songs and learn the alphabet. If I were jesus’ grandpa, I’d watch Him play with neighbor kids, running and tumbling in the dust, knowing Mary would scold me for letting him get so dirty, but knowing she really didn’t mean it. I’d teach him how to find a field bird’s nest and watch long enough for mother bird to lose her suspicion. I’d show him how to climb the rocks safely, watching for snakes and scorpions then thrilling in the bird’s-eye view from the peak. If I were Jesus’ grandpa, I’d tell him his family’s history; of the old days of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob; Of Moses and the freedom march from Egypt. I’d tell him of Joseph and Joshua and Jonah; of David, Jonathan and Solomon; of Deborah, Ruth and Esther. I’d tell him the bad parts too, those times when our fathers lost it and found their enemies overwhelming them and of the many rescues from dire straits. I’d tell him of my father and his father and his father all the way back to Abraham and, when he was older, all the way back to Adam. If I were Jesus’ grandpa, I’d sit with him as he recited words from the Torah. We’d talk of them and their meaning. He would stump me, I know, with his questions, but we would enjoy the time and the thoughts exchanged. Later, I would be surprised and terrified of his depth of insight and understanding. His interpretation would sound strange in my ears, but sing a wondrous song of truth to my heart. Later still, when he would begin to apply dreadful sayings to himself, I would tremble for him, should they turn out to be true. Then, before his real time came, mine would come and I would know nothing of his triumph or success; whether his gloomy terrifying predictions turned out or not. That is one of the blessings and curses of being a grandpa, that is, of reading the beginning of the book but knowing that, no matter how well written, you will never read the end. But if I were Jesus’ grandpa, I’d be OK with that, knowing that everything is in His real Father’s hands and that, in some strange but immensely important way, His life would be a larger-than-normal one. Grandpas just know such things. And, though I’m not Jesus’ grandpa, there is, in the reality of the grandpa that I am, in the joys and sorrows of the real life grandkids, an echo of what might have been, and I am deeply touched. 2.5.14